


Power Exchange

by Dawnwind



Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-04
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 23:03:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dawnwind/pseuds/Dawnwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for Marie for the feedback Follies--she asked for kink and I tried to provide! This contains BDSM and a consensual master/slave relationship—if this bothers you, do not read any further.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

There were subtle signs that signaled the start of one of those weekends. Like a tracker following a deer's prints, Starsky could read every one. The way Hutch fingered his handcuffs, even when he wasn't arresting anyone. The way he smiled absently, as if his mind was on something other than the overdue reports they were typing up, maybe planning something devious.  
Starsky could only hope.

Hutch rarely, if ever, announced his intentions ahead of time. He just put out the clues, got Starsky primed, so that when they got home, they were both ready.

Naturally, just when Starsky would build up a head of steam—whammo—life would intervene in a big way.

Only two hours until time to clock out, two damn hours. Starsky felt like he had when he was about to be discharged from the Army. That irritation in the back of his neck, his hair standing on end. The pure knowledge that someone, or some thing, was going to fuck it up royally.

They were cruising National Street, taking a long loop up past the mom and pop grocery, and SeXXX-o-Mania Theatre. The European spelling of theater always amused Starsky. He liked to point it out every time, just to get Hutch's blood boiling and see that eye roll.

"You think the original owner thought it'd be more cultured if he spelled it that way?" Starsky started up as he always did, glancing sideways at Hutch to watch the evolution of his exasperation.

"Starsky!" Hutch said urgently, pointing in the complete opposite direction than SeXXX-o-Mania. "There's Joey Carasco!"

They'd been after that squirrel for almost a month since his talent for robbing liquor stores had escalated to armed bank robbery. He'd been positively identified three times by frazzled bank tellers, but until now had managed to stay one step away from the cops.

Hutch was out of the car and running down the alley between Bo's Teaks and Hair Today before Starsky could even pull the parking brake. He called in their location with as few words as possible while angling the car into the gap in the sidewalk. Leaving the car door open, Starsky barreled after him, afraid of letting Hutch out of his sight for even a moment. Not when they had plans.

Well, not any day, actually.

Joey had proven over and over again that he was smarter than the average criminal. For all his cavalier ways when inside a bank, mugging for the security cameras and blowing farewell kisses to the female tellers, he knew how to evade capture. Hutch was standing alone, panting, behind Bo's Teaks, purveyor of fine teak furniture, when Starsky pelted up.

"You lose him?"

"Do you see him anywhere?" Hutch said

Starsky had the very perverse wish that that irritated energy was aimed at him instead of Joey. Hutch took a last look around and stomped back up to where the Torino blocked the alley's opening to call in the last known whereabouts of Joey Carasco.

"The guy's a weasel, but he can smell a cop from half a block a way." Starsky started to snug his pistol back into his holster, wrinkling his nose at fetid garbage and the inevitable scent of piss that perfumed every alley he'd ever been in.

The back door of Hair Today burst open just as Starsky took a step, sending him ass over tea kettle into a pile of refuse. Joey's laugh echoed weirdly off the sides of the building, but, half stunned and woozy, Starsky could only trust that his partner had his back.

"Never seen a cop in this position!" Joey announced victoriously.

Shit, the fucker was high. Which made things easier and vastly more dangerous at the same time.

"Hands where I can see them!" Hutch boomed like a mythical warrior descending on his prey. "Step away!"

Starsky didn't trust Joey to follow instructions. The kid had probably been the kind to run with scissors in kindergarten. Rolling to one side, Starsky hooked his calves around Joey's ankles and twisted. Trying to break free, Joey grabbed Starsky's arm, holding on tight.

Joey was damned strong. He went down, but he took Starsky along for the ride, both of them hitting the dumpster hard. Starsky looked up in time to see two Hutches pounce on two Joeys and haul them up by the collars. Both Joeys were snarling like wild animals, snapping and biting at their captors.

The plural Hutches were slowly melding into a single blond avenger when Starsky sat up. Hutch had shoved his prisoner against the wall with a snarled curse. The cuffs snicked around Joey's wrists. Starsky breathed out, caught between two worlds and too winded to decide which one he wanted to stay in. He'd expected Hutch to have the cuffs out, but not for this reason. Joey bucked, howling like a caged wolf, but Hutch never wavered, patting him down with furious intent.

Hutch's voice, reciting the familiar Miranda rights flowed over Starsky's head, punctuated by wild accusations and mumbled rants from Joey, and then a siren blotted them both out when back-up arrived, a dollar short and five minutes too late.

"Starsky?"

The emotion tucked into a single name — anger, tenderness, fear, and yes, exasperation—brought Starsky to his knees. He didn't even realize how needy he was until he looked up at his partner and wanted the cuffs, wanted them now, not after forty-zillion hours of arrest reports, interrogations, and all the damned rigmarole that went along with locking someone up in jail who had four bank robberies and a dozen liquor store heists under his belt.

"I'm okay," he said, instead.

"Motherfuckers!" Joey roared. "I'm Superman! I can fly!"

"PCP," one of the uniforms from the black and white said succinctly.

"You don't say?" Hutch forced out between clenched teeth, holstering his weapon with tight, jerky movements. Starsky expected him to explode any moment. "Hollings, take him to lock up, I have to see about Starsky. He might need to go to the ER."

Starsky knew better than to comment. It would only set Hutch off. He didn't need a doctor. He knew the difference between a concussion and a simple knock on the noggin after all these years. Heck, he'd earned his first concussion at the age of five, going over the handlebars of his half-sized two wheeler into oncoming traffic. This was nothing in comparison.

"You pigs ain't seen nothing! I told ya, I can fly!" Joey yelled wildly, grabbing hold of the cruiser's door. The two young cops jerked back and circled around him like football players going into a huddle.

Hollings, the taller of the two uniforms, had his hands full pushing Joey into the car. His partner, a gap-toothed kid who looked like he should be still in high school, kept watch from a safe distance with one hand on his holstered service revolver.

"Starsky?" Hutch pitched his voice higher and softer, coming down from his adrenaline spike. "How much longer?"

No need to interpret. This was their own code. And at least Hutch wasn't insisting on the ER visit. "One, maybe two hours?" Starsky guessed. "Joey won't get out on bail any time soon. We got time, babe." He wanted use another nickname for Hutch, but that was for later.

"Get in the car," Hutch snapped. "I'm driving."

For a moment, Starsky heard the other voice, the one Hutch reserved for those special occasions. But, no, this was just angry Hutch who hadn't protected his partner, and nothing more.

Starsky hauled himself up against the dumpster, very aware of Hutch's intense scrutiny. Unwilling to surrender to Hutch—not yet—Starsky watched the black and white drive away with Joey thrashing about in the back seat. Good thing there was a panel between him and the two uniforms. Just one of the reasons why he and Hutch usually had their prisoners transported in a black and white. The Torino had no such barrier.

Hutch was white faced and grim. He thrust one finger in front of Starsky's eyes, almost touching his nose. Trying to focus on the double image made Starsky's head pound, but not enough to complain about. "How many fingers do you see?"

"None, if you hold it too damn close!" Starsky refocused his eyes on blond hair and narrowed eyes. Hutch looked like he was trying to concentrate all his powers of diagnosis on Starsky. Raising his own finger, Starsky waggled it under his partner's long elegant nose. "Hutch, I got all my facilities . . ."

"Faculties?" he puzzled out.

"I'm not talking about teachers in high school!" Starsky groused, because it was better than admitting that he did have a headache, and he really, really wanted Hutch standing like a god while he knelt, small and submissive below. "Can we get back to Metro?"

Hutch gave him a hard, probing look and got into the Torino, revving the engine.

"It's my car," Starsky said to no one in particular, just because he could, and bent down to get into the passenger seat. That made his head pound. Luckily, there was a stash of aspirin in the glove compartment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Booking Carasco, writing up the most minimal arrest reports and filing the correct forms took longer than Starsky had predicted. The squadroom had emptied out, with the swing shift going home and graveyard going out on patrol while Starsky and Hutch slaved over an arrest that would bring them a commendation, not that either of them cared.

Like heated water raising pressure in a pipe, Starsky felt as if he was going to explode. The need was a live thing inside him, his skin felt too tight and too… sensitized. Every time Hutch reached over to grab another sheet of paper, or even simply glanced at him, his summer blue eyes smoldering like gas flames, Starsky nearly begged him to start what he knew was coming, because this delayed anticipation required a biohazard sign. He was combustible.

"The third floor interrogation room," Hutch said, carefully placing the last of the typed sheets inside a manila envelope. He ducked over the paperwork, his long blond bangs covering his eyelids.

"Huh?" Caught off guard, Starsky gaped at him. "We can't question Carasco, his lawyer's . . ." A tantalizing thought flared brightly in the midst of his headache induced gloom. "That room is . . ."

"Did you hear me?" Hutch said, cool and strong.

And that time, Starsky did hear him. Heard his master. "Yeah, third floor interrogation room," he repeated, his heart speeding up faster than the Torino ever did. He touched the heavy chain he wore around his neck, far more aware of its weight than he had been only a few moments before.

Hutch looked up, something shifting in his face, turning him from cop into someone gorgeous and almost unworldly who wielded erotic power. Starsky licked his lips, dropping his eyes from his partner's face as he was supposed to. They'd never done anything here in the police department, and he briefly considered the consequences. But if there was ever a day when it was remotely possible, this was it.

Dobey was at a police captain's convention in San Diego.

Every plainclothes cop on the graveyard shift was out keeping Bay City safe.

The third floor interrogation room was unusable due to a forgotten cigarette one of the prisoners had tossed in a corner. The resulting fire had damaged most of one wall and knocked out the electricity on the whole floor.

No one would be up there.

"I have to get a few things," Hutch said, sounding completely reasonable, as if he had planned it this way all along. "Go upstairs and wait for me."

His throat suddenly dry as dust, Starsky croaked. "Wait the way I do at home?"

A small, very wicked smile slid across Hutch's face for just a moment and then vanished. "Yes, the usual rules, the usual expectations."

Damn.

The sheer insane bravado, the absolute hubris of this stunt left Starsky breathless. His anticipation crawled to new heights, if that was possible. This topped anything Hutch had ever done.

Starsky forced himself to walk out the squadroom doors at a leisurely pace, and ran smack into the night shift watch commander.

"Hey, Starsky!" Del Starky put up his hands to ward off a full body slam. "You're here late."

"Wrapping stuff up, you know how it is," Starsky bluffed, backing off. He and Del were constantly getting messages and mail mixed up because of the similarity of their names. Nothing else between them was remotely the same. Starky was fifty-five, portly and African American. "Hutch is just . . . there," he added lamely when Hutch came through the door behind him, one eyebrow lifted quizzically.

"We collared Carasco," Hutch said.

Starsky touched his neck. Collared -- exactly what he expected to be very shortly.

"So I heard!" Starky nodded. "He's higher than my kid's kite. Doctor's been by, confirmed that he's on PCP, so I got Bengiman and Kawalsky keeping an eye on him in lock-up while I take a piss."

"Good plan," Hutch commented, glancing at Starsky.

Starsky could read his partner as if he had one of those cartoon word bubbles above his head. "Why aren't you upstairs already?" He almost laughed for all Hutch's outward serenity, he was as anxious as Starsky.

"Starsk?" Hutch said lightly.

"See you two later, gotta run!" Starky said with recognizable urgency.

Starsky winced. He knew the difficulties of having a small bladder. "Catch you on the flip side, Del, the next time the mail room mixes up our envelopes." He looked down at Hutch's shoes, the suede running shoes he'd been favoring lately. "Hutch," he said formally, the instinct to kneel overwhelming.

Master floated between them, unsaid but as loud as a shout.

Starsky took the stairs two at a time, praying that he didn't run into anyone else. Not likely. The third floor housed Children's Protective Services, payroll and the aforementioned interrogation room. The entire floor was empty at night—their own semi-private playroom.

A strip of yellow caution tape had been stretched across the doorway, but some joker had taken it and tied the length into a perky bow on the doorknob. Starsky knew that it wasn't Hutch, because he had seen the bow the day before when he went up to CPS to discuss a child abandonment case with the sergeant on the desk.

Still, he liked it, and flicked the decoration when he walked through the door. He stopped, taking stock of the place. It was dark, almost pitch black without any light source. Luckily, there was an battery powered lantern hanging from a ladder that leaned against the wall. Starsky switched it on and closed the door, creating weird overlapping shadows across the narrow room.

The work crew had draped a tarp over the two-way mirror and were in the process of repairing the damaged wall. There was the usual construction equipment: a saw horse, toolbox, and cans of paint had been shoved into a corner. The table and chairs generally used by the arresting officer and his detainee remained in their usual places because the table legs were screwed into the floor.

Starsky stared uncomfortably at the table where he'd questioned dozens of men, specifically at the metal D ring bolted to one side of the table. The criminal's side—where he could be cuffed securely.

Where Starsky could very possibly be cuffed—with his own handcuffs.

He took a deep, slow, breath, fighting sudden panic at being discovered here with Hutch. It would finish their careers in a single instant if IA, or anyone else, found out. But on the other hand—it was like stepping out of an airplane and jumping free fall into the rushing wildness.

Unbuckling his holster, Starsky placed the leather straps and the gun carefully to one side. He took off his sneakers, then piled his blue Henley and jeans neatly beside the gun, and dropped his black briefs and red socks on top of the pile, Now ready, Starsky took another breath, and a third, feeling something inside him dive deep to release that welcome submission he'd longed for all evening.

He knew with all his being that this was only for Hutch. No other man could have coaxed Starsky to his knees and then had him beg for another session afterward. No other person on earth held Starsky in his sway the way Hutch could with a single, loving glance.

With joyful expectation and a hint of trepidation, Starsky knelt, arranging himself as his master wished. Sitting back on his heels, legs spread, hands lax and pretty on his thighs.

He was just in time. Hutch came through the door moments later. Starsky heard the click of the lock like the chime of an alarm clock.

It was time.


	2. Two

He sat up even straighter, though his feet were already tingling. This pose was not for his own comfort, this was for Hutch, who didn't acknowledge his slave in any way. A second source of light blazed, catching Starsky off guard. He squinted into the brightness, seeing Hutch as a tall black outline, backlit from some kind of portable lantern, placing several items on the table.

Starsky watched Hutch's suede shoes, waiting, trying not to guess what would come next. Because anticipation was part of the game. Hutch always left him wanting more, which in itself was a miracle, since Starsky was often sore, bruised, and covered in welts by the end. And he wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

"Starsky," Hutch said into the quiet. "Answer me truthfully—how bad is your headache?"

Staring fixedly at his master's fawn colored slacks, Starsky considered the question. He still had a headache, but it in no way would prevent him from playing their games. "I took four aspirin, sir, washed it down with a carton of milk and an old donut." Possibly more information than he'd been asked to convey, but Hutch frequently asked him if he'd eaten before a play session, so he was just killing two birds with one stone.

"One demerit because you didn't actually answer my question," Hutch said sharply, his feet never moving.

A thrill of aroused fear spread from his groin to his throat. Starsky didn't dare look up at Hutch. "I still have a headache, but it's under control."

"Thank you," Hutch said and his voice softened, deepening in pitch. "We don't have a collar so your chain will remind you of your place, and who you are—to me."

"Yes, master," Starsky responded, grinning.

"Come here." Hutch hooked a finger under the edge of the chain collar and guided Starsky to a stand. "There's a special rule for today—you can't make a lot of noise." Starsky kept his gaze on Hutch's chest, watching him breathe in and out so that his shirt shifted and rippled in enticing ways. "Who knows if the fire wrecked the soundproofing. If you think you need to yell, say gag."

Starsky hated asking for the gag. Hated it enough that he would try his dammedest to keep quiet—which was unfortunately, a very hard thing to do.

"Yes, sir."

"When was the last time you were marked?" Hutch asked conversationally, walking around him. As if he didn't know, since he was who wielded the strap. He lightly flicked his finger over the place on Starsky's butt where there were usually two or three long red stripes.

If Hutch marked him today, there was no way Starsky could keep quiet. "Two weeks ago."

Taking a step in, Hutch ran his hand slowly and precisely down the curve of Starsky's flank onto his ass and then down to the place where groin met thigh. Starsky fought to maintain his balance, all without melting into his master's touch or flinching away.

Hutch bridged Starsky's thighs and pushed upward until he had his fingers tucked under the scrotum. His hand was big and didn’t quite fit into the small space. To accommodate his master, Starsky widened his legs slightly, feeling wobbly and unsure. He wasn't supposed to move, but if he didn't, he would fall. Hutch murmured his approval and slipped his hand up higher, his palm against Starsky's perineum, and then he tightened his fingers just enough to squeeze. It wasn't uncomfortable, far from it, but Starsky felt like the top of his head blew off. He chuffed in a startled breath and shifted his eyes to the right.

Hutch was looking straight at him and smiled, brilliant and nasty. He didn't have to say Gotcha! Starsky already knew he'd lost the challenge. He felt himself flush and jutted out his chin, because as much as he loved the peace of absolute surrender, it was his nature to defy.

"Which do you want first?" Hutch said, breathing into Starsky's ear. That treacherous hand slid up Starsky's back to his neck, locking onto the base of his skull. Tiny vibrations thrummed down to his cock when Hutch bit down very lightly on his earlobe, tonguing the stud earring there. "Nipple clamps and a kiss, or four smacks and a blow job?"

"Will I eventually get both?" Starsky asked, surprised how steady his voice was when Hutch had latched onto his neck hard enough to raise a hickey.

Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky, launching a maddening assault, kissing and suckling his way upward to the jaw line. Hutch always paid special attention to the soft, sensitive skin just below the ear. Dropping his head back, Starsky put up no resistance, giving all to his master. He wanted to kiss Hutch, to adore him, but he hadn't been released yet. If there was one specific thing Hutch obviously liked about the master/slave relationship, it was having absolute control.

"Eventually." Hutch traced the outline of Starsky's mouth with his finger, still holding him close.

Talk about difficult decisions. Both combined pain with erotic pleasure. "Nipple clamps and a kiss," he said, dropping his eyes. He could see his own nipples half hidden in chest hair and let out a slow breath to prepare for what came next.

"Good," Hutch chuckled. "Because I happen to have a couple right here."

"Why am I not surprised?" Starsky muttered, grinning. He dropped his eyes down again and assumed the waiting position, arms behind his back, one hand braceleting the other wrist to keep it in place.

Hutch's hands came into view holding two of the most vicious nipple clamps he owned. He must have been keeping them in the car—in fact, he must have been prepared for a remote location session. Starsky hadn't gotten a chance to see everything that he brought, but these were his least favorite pair of clamps.

Still, when Hutch rolled and pinched Starsky's right nipple, Starsky's knees went soft. Yeah…" he whispered. He didn't care if there was extreme pain in his immediate future because the present was so very, very arousing.

"You always were a glutton for nipple play." Hutch laughed, low and sensuous, leaning in to play his tongue over the now throbbing nipple.

Starsky moaned, his groin pulsing in lockstep with his right nipple. The left one set up a syncopated tingling in opposition, as if begging for Hutch's attention.

"Don't move," Hutch warned, just as Starsky started to shift his weight. "You're command locked for now." In other words, he couldn't free his hands, even though they were not cuffed.

"Hu—tch…" He wanted to pull away, and yet beg for more when Hutch twisted his nipple so tight that it stole his breath. In that moment, Hutch closed the brutal clamp down onto swollen flesh. Starsky gasped, his eyes tearing up. That damned thing took all his concentration until Hutch started in on the left nipple. Conflicting sensations swamped him. The sharp pain, centered on his right chest which intensified every time he took a breath, and the wonderful, warm wet perfection of Hutch's mouth on his left side.

Starsky put caution, and rules, to the wind, and kissed the back of Hutch's neck, breathing in his scent. Hutch was close enough that his shoulder bumped the nipple clamp, sending shock waves of pain through Starsky. Exactly the kind of intense pleasure/pain that made him hard as iron. His erection shot forward, bouncing off Hutch's hip. The resulting friction was almost incandescent.

Hutch danced away, leaving Starsky's cock swaying, and snicked the second nipple clamp into place. Starsky sucked in air and let it out in jerky pants, determined not to make a sound. When Hutch closed both hands over the compressed nubs and actually pinched down hard on the metal, Starsky bucked, about ready to jump out of his own skin. And then Hutch kissed him, with exactly the same fierce passion that he'd expended on the sorely abused nipples.

Starsky fought for about one second, battling Hutch for supremacy, before surrendering completely. This was worth all the crap, the horrific crimes and brain-sucking tedium of police work. This was him and Hutch, together, a team in all things. Yin and yang, pushing and pulling. The give and the take.

Starsky wasn't even sure who was doing the taking. Hutch's tongue was in his mouth and he slid his around, feeling like he was swimming into his master, diving down for a long stay. Hutch didn't let go, almost sucking Starsky's tongue right out of its mooring.

"Babe," Hutch whispered against Starsky's lips. "Nothing better…"

Starsky would have laughed, but when he tipped his head back enough to see tiny versions of his own face in Hutch's eyes, he was struck dumb. Love swamped him and he went to his knees, Hutch's hands trailing down his body. The left nipple clamp snagged on Hutch's belt buckle, causing sharp blossoms of pain. He couldn't move or risk ripping sensitive skin. Starsky gasped, crouched in an awkward position, his erection begging for release, jammed against Hutch's slacks. Every single raw sensation brought more desire. He wobbled, unable to use his hands to steady himself, but Hutch extricated the metal clip off the pin of his buckle and guided Starsky down until he was kneeling, head bowed, submissive. Now he was perfectly placed to suck Hutch's cock.

"Come on." Hutch stroked his face, making lazy, amazing circles on his temples until what little sense Starsky had left seemed to leak out of his ears. "You know how. All with your mouth."

Which meant that he wasn't free to reach up and take down Hutch's fly in a normal fashion. Starsky nudged Hutch's legs wider to get a better purchase on the zipper pull with his teeth. It was tiny and hard to grip, but he knew from experience that if he turned his head ever so slightly and got the metal tab between his canines, he always got the job done much faster. He yanked too fast and dropped the damned thing, but the zipper was half undone by then and he caught the wonderful, musky odor of aroused Hutch. The best aphrodisiac on the planet.

More determined than ever, Starsky grabbed the zipper pull and completed his task. Hutch helped out by angling his erection through the slit in his boxers. Suddenly, Starsky's world was long, thick, throbbing and round. He inhaled, absorbing Hutch's essence through his pores. He rubbed his cheek against the soft, warm skin, making Hutch suck air fast.

"Starsk—" Hutch bit down on the "k" hard, cracking it like a whip. "God…" He staggered and then righted himself by fisting Starsky's hair with both hands, clutching hard.

Just the sound of Hutch's pleasure made Starsky swell. Their cocks were connected by an invisible string, excited not only by simple proximity but by the complex emotions stirred up by the master/slave relationship. Starsky couldn't puzzle out why this worked so incredibly well even when he had time to think—when he was going down on Hutch's cock, he didn't care at all. He just wanted more. More of Hutch, more of being held down and ravaged, more submission.

He took his time, administering to Hutch with every technique he had at his disposal. The gentle glide of teeth along the ridge had Hutch yanking on Starsky's hair so hard that he expected to be bald in a matter of minutes. Encouraged by the enthusiastic response, Starsky pursed his lips, tightened around Hutch's crown, and hummed, sending the vibrations along the shaft like a tuning fork.

Hutch joined in with perfect pitch, a steady "aaaa…" just loud enough for him to hear. Starsky could feel Hutch's penis fill against his soft palate, and knew that his master was close to climax.

Bracing himself on his heels, Starsky played his final note, a quick glance of teeth over the slit, and then he blew lightly over the moist, pulsing organ.

Hutch came like a fountain, spurting forcefully. Starsky shuddered as semen splattered across his face and chest, close to orgasming himself just because Hutch had. But he didn't, because that was part of the game, that he had to wait until he was allowed. He was the slave.

He was Hutch's toy.

He was exactly where he wanted to be.

Panting, his face transfixed with a kind of awe, Hutch sat heavily in the chair usually reserved for the arresting officer and pulled Starsky against him. Starsky rested his head on Hutch's thigh, petting the soft thatch of hair above his limp penis. The room was quiet except for Hutch's slowing breathing. It was as if they were millions of miles away from Bay City instead of on the third floor of the police department. He didn't even care that he was covered with sticky semen or that his own needs had been neglected. Well, not very much, anyway. Sometimes, Hutch made him wait for hours, just to drive Starsky slightly insane, he was sure of that.

"You are incredible, do you know that?" Hutch said softly, looking down at Starsky. "Sucked the life right out of me."

"No stamina," Starsky said wickedly, tweaking a few strands of blond pubic hair.

"What's your hand doing there?" Hutch asked without moving, but Starsky was suddenly very aware of who was the master and who was the slave.

"Massage?" Starsky suggested, his mouth dry. He wasn't sure how Hutch did it. There was no obvious change of voice or expression. Hutch didn't rear up and assume a god-like stance, but between one moment and the next, he'd reasserted his dominance.

"Which, another time, would be very welcome." Hutch sat straighter, squaring his shoulders.

Starsky swallowed, but it was like trying to eat sand. The chain around his neck felt like a lead weight and the clamps on his nipples suddenly seemed incredibly tighter, pain surging across his chest in a wave. Impossibly, his cock acted like it was gonna get some, twitching with excitement against his belly.

"But I expressly told you that you were command locked, and your hands were supposed to stay behind your back." Hutch did stand now, and adjusted his clothing, tucking his satisfied penis into his jeans. Formidable. "Which means that you disobeyed a direct order."

Perched stiffly on his heels in presentation position, hands posed on his thighs, Starsky couldn't decide it he was excited about what was going to happen next or very, very scared. A little of both. Adrenaline sped up his heart rate and he had to bite down on his bottom lip to stop from grinning.

"Another demerit, or more like five," Hutch mused, tapping his bottom lip with this forefinger. "I think that puts the total of swats up to—I don't know, eight?"

Under normal circumstances, Starsky might have pointed out that Hutch's math was way off. He'd only earned one demerit earlier, plus five made six. But there was no way he was going to correct his master's arithmetic. That would just add on demerits in the form of additional strokes.

"Eight," Starsky repeated, staring at Hutch's knees.

"This room holds a number of possibilities for where to secure the . . ." Hutch gave a chuckle as if he'd just thought of something fiendish. "Prisoner. Maybe interrogate him about his . . . crimes?"

His pulse practically skyrocketing, Starsky wanted to start right that moment, but he had to wait, to temper his tendency to jump right in before permission. He needed his head examined—he wanted to get smacked! Just the idea had his cock leaking.

"Looks like you approve of the plans." Hutch nudged Starsky's penis with the toe of his suede shoe. "You cannot come. Do you think you need a cock ring or a gag?"

Eight strokes. He'd had many more in other play sessions, but that had always been in a private setting where he could howl if he needed to. The need to cry out, to yell and scream wasn't just because the belt—and particularly the crop—hurt like fury. They did. But sometimes, Starsky just welcomed the freedom to make noise. To bellow and shout, to let out all the shit that built up inside all week long.

Hutch termed it the primal scream.

He did not want the gag—and he wanted to yell.

Damn. Dammit to hell.

"Gag, please."

"Place it on yourself." Hutch held out the old familiar one.

Starsky could see his own teeth marks in the red rubber ball. How long would it be before they needed to replace the gag for a new one? He wasn't sure how he felt about the fact that they'd used the damned gag that much. Were they playing too often? Was doing it right under IA's noses courting danger? Or were they just growing comfortable in these extreme roles?

"Starsky?" Hutch said when he didn't take the gag.

"Thank you, master," Starsky said softly. He reached for the wretched thing, his left arm brushing against the nipple clamp and reactivating bright shards of pain. Dragging in a hitched breath made the other nipple remember that there was a tight metal clip compressing it, too. This was getting past the point of pleasurable and into just agony. His headache, which had dulled with the painkillers, seemed suddenly far more intrusive. "Fuck."

"We're not going to do any of that right now." Hutch sounded so incredibly reasonable, Starsky almost looked up at him with a laugh.

But he didn't, because he had to fit the red rubber ball into his mouth and buckle the strap. Actually doing something he didn't like to do was the very hardest part of submission. Taking the pain and waiting were annoying, but helped stimulate the arousal. Made it into a game. The interesting thing was that Starsky had come to—if not really cherish the difficult parts, then learn from them. Submission was not passivity. He did not bow down and pretend that he was acquiescing to Hutch's will. He had learned to move outside himself and accept that there were times in life when there was no way to control what happened. Being so totally out of control that there was nothing left but to give in and accept was amazingly freeing.

Even if it hurt, and not just physically. Deep down, he wanted to fight, to say no—which would stop the play. Which would change what they had, and in the end, he would hate that far more than having to put on a gag.

Taking a slow deep breath, and swallowing to rid himself of as much saliva as possible, Starsky put the gag between his teeth and wrapped the straps behind his head. Hutch's hand curled around his and helped him guide the end into the buckle, snugging the straps into Starsky's cheeks. He felt that tiny frisson of panic that always welled up when he was gagged, but when Hutch pulled Starsky against him, it evaporated like rain on a hot day.

They stood together for a long moment, Hutch's heart beating against Starsky's spine, Hutch's cheek pressed against Starsky's.

"Sometimes, I look at you," Hutch started, his voice imbued with such depth of love and devotion that Starsky wanted to turn around and kiss him. "And I can't believe that you. . . want to be with me. That we are together, always, and . . . you scare the hell out of me."

Starsky started to turn but Hutch tightened his arms around Starsky's chest, pinning him in place. Bounds that held him more securely than any leather cuffs ever could.

"And I don't just mean out on the street, even if you undid years of eating yogurt and vitamins when I saw you lying there. Stopped my heart cold." Hutch pressed a kiss into Starsky's neck, his breath ruffling the curls caught under the buckle. "You scare me here, too. I…can plan anything, anywhere… and you kneel down, ready and willing."

Wanting to speak, to give his side, Starsky made a guttural protest. His jaw already ached, and trying to talk scraped his throat raw.

"See why I wanted you in a gag?" Hutch said, and just like that the near desperation was gone, although Starsky could hear a slight tremor underneath his master's cocky voice. "You are my soul, Starsk. You listen to me, and I learn from you, and with you, every single day. About how marvelous life can be. How exciting everything is with the right partner."

"Crazy bastard," Starsky said. It didn't come out sounding anything like that, but he made Hutch laugh. The vibrations from Hutch's chest transferred into Starsky's heart, so that it beat in time to his master's laughter.

"So, David Starsky." Hutch marched them in step over to the table, placing Starsky directly in front of the metal D ring bolted to the top. "You're charged with aiding and abetting in a…" he paused, chuckling still. "What would you call what we're doing here, little one? A felony?"

Starsky twisted away, not because he was afraid but because he knew Hutch expected a reaction out of him. Hutch clamped a big hand around his bicep and reeled him back in. "You cannot get away from me that easily."

Panting, Starsky raised his chin in defiance, his heart pounding, his blood racing joyfully. All the pains that had plagued him just a few minutes ago were now just spice for the game, making him hot and bothered with no way to get relief except to play along. He laughed and drool ran down his chin.

"Tsk, tsk." Hutch leaned in and licked his face clean.

Completely distracted, Starsky didn't sense the cuffs until the first one snicked around his wrist and Hutch had already locked it to the D ring.

"That will keep you in line." Hutch planted a possessive kiss over the red ball separating Starsky's lips. "Where are your cuffs?"

Starsky held firm, not giving anything away. His breath was loud and harsh around the gag, his chest heaving, which made the nipple clamps dance like a stripper's tasseled pasties. Hutch looked sternly at his prisoner, but there was a light of mischief in his blue eyes. Starsky backed up as much as possible with one hand connected to the table.

"In your jeans?" Hutch guessed. "In the back pocket?" He looked away for a second, locating the clothing. Catching Starsky with a hot, needy gaze, Hutch said, "when you have your cuffs jammed into that pocket, so impossibly tight that it leaves a clear ring on the back of your butt, right next to your asshole, sometimes I can't even think straight. I walk behind you just so I can see that circle and imagine what I'd like to do."

Starsky groaned. He didn't have to imagine the possibilities—he only had to remember other sessions, other times when Hutch striped him naked and centered in on his anus. He'd push in fast and demanding, clear up inside until their balls bounced together.

Hutch had said they weren't going to fuck tonight. That didn't mean it would never happen again. So much to look forward to.

He jerked his chin again. Half at the cuffs hanging out of his folded jeans and half to look up at Hutch and drown in those hungry eyes. He was the reason that Hutch was this aroused so shortly after orgasm.

"My sources tell me," Hutch continued like a detective questioning his suspect. "That you've been driving a flashy red and white car around Bay City." He scooped the cuffs out of Starsky's jeans and stalked over to his restrained slave. "Showing off those wares to all comers. Wanton and lascivious, that's you. Which leads me to believe…"

Starsky let his other hand be cuffed, sure that his heart was pounding so hard he would pass out from lack of blood in his brain. His cock was huge, swollen and aching, begging for attention from Hutch.

Hutch tugged on the metal chains restraining Starsky. "That you would do anything to get out of a confession. Am I right?" He pushed Starsky down until he was leaning over the table, legs spread wide to stabilize his stance, head hanging.

Starsky craned his neck to the left, for once glad that he wasn't wearing the thick, tight collar. The collar made it much harder to turn his head, to watch what was going on behind him.

Hutch very slowly unbuckled the heavy, two inch wide leather belt he wore around his waist and pulled it free of the belt loops.

"Am I right?" Hutch demanded more forcefully. He dangled the belt against Starsky's ass, just letting the very end touch his skin.

"Yeth!" Starsky answered as loudly as he could around the gag. Anything? God, yes. He'd have sold his soul to the devil at this point as long as Hutch brought him off.

"I like to hear that," Hutch said smugly. "Eight strokes, right?"

Starsky bobbed his head, closing his eyes to prepare for the fiery sting of the first strike.

It never came.

Hutch ran one hand down Starsky's hip to his groin and threaded the belt between his legs, letting it slide roughly over the taut perineum that he had squeezed earlier. Bringing the belt up firmly, Hutch trapped Starsky's cock against his belly. His hands fisted around each end, Hutch gave the belt one final jerk, pulling it so tightly that Starsky went up on his toes.

Frantic vibrations rising through him, Starsky sucked in a startled breath, shaking with adrenaline. His cock throbbed violently.

"Do not come until the count of eight," Hutch whispered in his ear, surrounding him, holding him.

Yes, master, anything master.

Gag or no gag, there was no way Starsky could have managed speech at that point.

"One," Hutch said. He gripped each end of the belt, trapping Starsky's body in the middle, and twitched the belt in a fast motion. "Two!" The friction was like an ignition switch. If Starsky hadn't already been turned on, this alone would have done the trick. As it was, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, past the incredible, wonderful, intense abrasion of the heavy leather on his sensitized cock.

He was going to go out of his mind if Hutch didn't count quicker.

"Three." Hutch licked Starsky from mid-back to the base of his skull, grinding the belt into him at the same time.

"Foh!" Starsky shouted on a gasp, fingers clutching the metal chain securing him to the table because he had to hold onto something.

"Nope." Hutch stopped and loosened the belt just enough that Starsky howled in distress. "You do not get to count." He reached around and pinched the base of Starsky's penis, taking a little of the pressure off. "Now, I will just have to start again. Every time you try to force things, it will take that much longer."

"Hu—sstsh!" Starsky protested, too close to climax, even after the pinch, to have any patience.

"Do you want this or not?" Hutch asked, swirling his tongue around the earring in Starsky's left lobe. "And remember where we are. Keep quiet!"

"Yeth, yeth," Starsky babbled when the wet tip of Hutch's tongue tickled the inside of his ear.

"One," Hutch started again, jamming the belt up hard into Starsky's groin, the thick edges biting into the inside of his thighs. He pulled up on one side of the belt and then the other, counting fast as he stropped Starsky's cock. "Two, three, four, five."

His skin on fire, Starsky threw back his head against Hutch's chest, his chest heaving with effort. The nipple clamps swung wildly, smacking his sternum.

"Six, seven," Hutch said quickly and pulled the belt free, replacing it with his hand.

Eight, eighteighteight Starsky chanted in his brain. C'mon, eight!

"I think I lost count," Hutch mused, fisting Starsky's cock. "Were we at…?"

Starsky knew the consequences of speaking aloud. To hell with them.

"Ei-ht!" He came hard, his whole body convulsing with the force, wave after wave washing over him in a punishing rush. He wouldn't have remained standing if Hutch hadn't been holding him up.

Muzzy on the details for the next few moments, Starsky came back to himself at the sound of the handcuffs unlocking. Hutch was laughing softly.

"Hey," Hutch nudged the chair up under Starsky's butt. "Sit down. Rest up. There's more where that came from, but we need to adjourn to another venue."

Starsky worked his jaw muscles to relieve the strain from the gag, hoping that Hutch would take that off once he stowed the cuffs. No such luck.

"Ve-nu?" he managed, drooling with the effort.

"I've finished with your interrogation." Hutch handed him his jeans and shoes, and for a moment Starsky wondered if Hutch expected him to walk through the police department wearing a gag and nipple clamps. "Next step is the trial and sentencing. There's a nice…private spot in the back yard of two Bay City cops that seems perfect for that." He ran a soothing hand down Starsky's back. Starsky inhaled, relaxing into the caress.

Without warning, Hutch plucked both clamps off at once. Caught on an exhale, Starsky had no air in his lungs to scream. The blood rushed back into his abused nipples, pain slamming in like a tornado. He had to grab the edge of the table to stop himself from coming off the chair.

"So, you'd better get dressed or you'll miss the pre-hearing deliberations," Hutch said. "And those can take hours, what with plea bargaining and all those…motions from the accused." He gave such a nasty, delighted chuckle that Starsky's limp cock actually twitched in response.

"G'g?" Starsky slurred hopefully, pulling his t-shirt over his head. The soft fabric against his sore nipples was agonizing and he didn't relish pulling skin tight denim over his burning cock. He could definitely forgo the underwear for tonight.

"What?" Hutch looked up from working his belt back into the belt loops. "Did you say something? I couldn't hear you with the shirt over your head."

Annoyed at the gleeful expression on his partner's face, Starsky just glared at him.

"Oh, you want the gag off!" Hutch raised both hands in the universal 'why' gesture. "Starsk, you should see yourself. Lips so far apart, cheeks stretched. You know what we need? One of those gags with a big ring so that I can slip it right into your mouth and…"

"Now?" Starsky spit out, enunciating as clearly as possible when his jaw was about to be permanently frozen in the open wide position.

"It's a good look for you." Hutch unbuckled the strap and eased the gag out of Starsky's mouth. "You almost bit the ball in two!"

"So sue me," Starsky said much more clearly, rubbing his cheeks to get out the ache.

"Not a bad idea," Hutch said brightly, placing the damp gag in a plastic bag to be cleaned at home. "Just one more charge against you. This trial could take all weekend."

"And I'll just get fucked in the end, huh?" Starsky joined in, filled with expectations of much more fun to come.

"That's the only feasible conclusion the judge can come to." Hutch tossed Starsky a roll of paper towels. He sprayed the table, chairs and surrounding floor with a potent mixture of ammonia and water, and they both wiped clean their playing field. Just as Hutch tucked his electric lantern in the gym bag he had brought, Starsky turned off the light that he had hung on the ladder, plunging the room into darkness.

"Ready?" Hutch asked, opening the door to the third floor interrogation room.

Starsky glanced around the place, his whole body still tingling from their games. He'd never, ever be able to come into this place and question another suspect. He'd have to confine himself to the rooms on the second floor, across from the detective's squadroom. This place was forever marked with the memory of Hutch using his hand tooled belt in a most unique manner.

And yet, nothing was left of their presence. The room looked exactly as he had first seen it, filled with construction equipment. If it smelled much more like ammonia than burned plasterboard, none of the workmen would probably even take notice.

"Ready, master," he whispered, following Hutch out.

The drive to their house would take just under an hour at this time of the night, as long as they had no distractions. Starsky smiled, deliberately overtaking Hutch on the stairs so that Hutch could watch his back. Or the handcuffs jammed into his back pocket. He grinned when Hutch growled softly.

"Hey, guys!" A voice stopped them just as they were headed down the hall to where Starsky's Torino was parked in front of the building. "I thought you two left an hour ago." Del Starky caught up with them, leaning on the sergeant's desk in the lobby.

"We…" Hutch started and blushed.

"Hutch was regalin' me with stories of his recent conquest," Starsky said fast, elbowing his partner in the ribs. "He's a real tiger, huh?"

"That dark-haired little cop in vice?" Starky guessed, placing an envelope into the out basket. "Fills out a blue t-shirt and jeans better than Farrah Fawcett any day of the week."

"Del!" Hutch protested helplessly. "And you a married man. But your description isn't far from the truth."

"I can still look, as long as the wife doesn't hear about it." He play-slugged Hutch's arm. "You dog. Going home?"

Starsky almost slipped. "Gotta be up… early for booking, right, Hutch?"

"Oh, I forgot to tell you." Starky tapped his forehead. "Where's my memory? Carasco's lawyer can't get him on the docket for two days. Courts are backed up."

"Thanks for the update." Hutch caught Starsky's eye and inclined his head out the door. "We have some alternate charges we can work on in the mean time."

"Felonies." Starsky felt a giggle rumbling up from his belly as Del Starky walked away. He looked down at the cuffs tucked neatly into Hutch's pocket. "Misdemeanors, indecent exposure…"

"Aggravated assaults …" Hutch suggested and blocked Starsky's way, charging Metro's front door. He dashed for the Torino at full tilt.

Starsky caught up to him and hip-bounced him against the hood of the car. "Lewd and lascivious behavior."

"Can't have too much of that," Hutch agreed. "Get in the car, slave, and drive."

Fin

 

 


End file.
